


We All Have Our Secrets

by T_Philips



Series: A Collection of Things [3]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, drunk trevor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/T_Philips/pseuds/T_Philips
Summary: "A 'nother round!" He yells to the bartender, swooping in to grab the shots before she could put them on the counter of the bar. "Drink- up, Mikey. If I'm tellin' you anythin', I'm gonna have to be drunk as a skunk."





	

He couldn't move; couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. He was stuck in place on the ratty old couch, years of wear and tear evident by the fading plaid and holes on the seems. He's had the couch for years, always in front of the counter that held the rusted sink that was full to the brim with murky water and dirty dishes. His characteristic energetic self had been swallowed whole by the shock and dread that washed over his body after reading the papers he held in his hand for hours now, perhaps even days. The feeling was like no other; but recognizable to a fault. He had felt it before, when he was younger and naive about the world around him; but now it had taken hold of him and shook his form of all its worth. He couldn't believe the words printed in the scribbled handwriting, nor did he want to. It was inevitable, the end result was soon to come but he never wished to be here so soon. 

Pulling in a ragged breath he reread the script, eyed floating over the letters like a false article you'd find on the internet. But, this was no false piece of litterateur. He knew better then to think it was wrong, or that the letter was addressed for someone with the same name and address. As soon as he had seen the handwriting on the front, he knew who it was from, but dreaded the words that followed. 

A cold sweat breaks out over his forehead and he swipes the moisture away with the back of his hairy forearm. He could feel the acid rising from his stomach as he reads the first sentence for the tenth time.

A lump forms in his throat and it feels like a spiked rock is stuck in his windpipe as the thoughts swarm his mind, his eyesight becoming blurry from the sudden tears developing in the corners of his. Normally he'd curse himself till he'd gain control of the sign of weakness, but his mind is clouded and distant from any sort of control. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, the light from the touch screen shining dimly through the cotton material of his dingy sweatpants. He ignores it the first time, but the buzzing continues, vibrations pulling him back to reality. Shoving a bloody knuckled hand into the torn pocket he grabs the buzzing device and answers without checking the number id, pushing the phone up to his ear while evening his breaths. ".... Yeah?" 

"Hey T, its me. Hey uh- I'm bored, do you wanna hangout?" 

"...." 

"T? It's fine if you don't want to- I mean, if you're busy. I'll call later-"

"Michael. Shut up."

"Where are you at?" 

"You know where." He said, ending the phone call before tossing his phone to the couch, returning to the paper rolled out on his lap. He scowls at it, guilt starting to build again, but he was supposed to be the strong one, the one with no emotions. He takes a grab at it a little to harshly and it crinkles the whole page, resulting in more frustration that leads to ripping the thing to shreds before the thoughts come back. Michael would be here some, and there wasn't any time to think about anything else besides getting shit faced.

The hum of a familiar motor catches his attention minutes later and he pushes the creaky trailer door open, earning a glimpse of Michael fixing his hair and suit in the Tailgater before moving to get out. Trevor grins, hiding the underlaying guilt still coursing through his blood and mind, leaning against the doorframe while the other takes his time coming up the porch. Michael doesn't return the grin, only stares. "Miss me, Sugar?" Michael scoffs, moving the walk inside the trailer but Trevor is quick to block him. "What? No hello kiss?" 

"Don't act like something isn't up, T. You're a horrible liar." The older man grumbles, forcing his way past and stops at the pile of white paper remains. "What the fuck is this?"

"Nothin'."

"Bullshit. What is it?"

"I said it's nothin'!" Trevor yells, lump forming back in his neck and his voice cracks. "Leave it be!"

"Okay- fine- fine! Let's go then. If you won't tell me, I'll find out another way." 

"Fine." 

"Fine."

"Good." 

"Good."

 

\- - - - -

Another hour later, and six shots of tequila with a squeeze of lime and a lick of salt, Michael leans over towards Trevor, nudging him with a hard elbow to the ribs. "You gonna tell me now?" He yells over the loud music of the Henhouse. 

Trevor staggers a little bit before regaining his balance from throwing himself away from Michaels voice exploding his eardrum. "Nuh-uh- I ain't tell you jack shit!" He yells back, temporarily deaf in his left ear. "A 'nother round!" He yells to the bartender, swooping in to grab the shots before she could put them on the counter of the bar. "Drink- up, Mikey. If I'm tellin' you anythin', I'm gonna have to be drunk as a skunk." 

Michael laughs at his attempt to stand properly against the bar, watching his partner in crime throw another shot back, pouring his own into a empty cup beside him. He knew he was at his limit, given he suddenly had to hunch forward to avoid losing his balance like his friend. "You already are drunk, T. You never hold your liquor." He says to the drunken man beside him, grabbing his elbow before he tipped back and hit the burly biker standing behind him. "Be careful!"

"Careful-" Trevor slurps, "is my middle man." The meth head practically throws himself at Michael in attempt to keep balance, latching onto him with a handful of the front of his suit jacket and another hand on his back. "Ain't it?" He ask, alcohol breath wafting through the air.

"Sure, T. Sure." 

The other man always had a way of clinging himself to you if you happened to get him shit faced; often rather than not you'd end up having to drag his ass home because he'd tell you he'd 'never want to leave your side' and just latch onto you. Michael knew from experience: a clinging Trevor meant a loose tongued Trevor, which ultimately ended in him spewing out whatever information he needed from him. Though he'd have to go through the trouble of getting his drunk partner home with him puking in the car, he knew he'd get the answer from earlier, sooner or later. 

Suddenly, Trevor's skull collides with his shoulder and the smacking of his scarred lips fills his ear. "Michaaaael--..." Trevor drones into his ear, while his arm wretch Michaels and his bodies flush together so he could rest his head on top of his. 

"You better not puke on me, you asshole." Michael replies, giving light push against the other man to gain some distance from him. "Come on, T." He says wrapping a arm around Trevor's smaller waist, throwing a hundred on the counter. "Let's get you home." 

"Hey Mikey-" 

"Yes?" 

"Can I tell you something?" 

"Sure, Bud." 

Trevor shifts to lean his head back on top of Michaels. "I gotta letter- from - from Lester... and it said that you were dead. And that I was dead, and that Frankie's dead." 

"What?"

"There's aaa- hit out on us." 

All the color seems to rush from Michaels face. "Trevor-" 

"Ya-?"

"Are you- ....joking?"

".... noo."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Feel free to give me suggestions of requests!


End file.
